Reflections
by wiebke
Summary: Mulan retold from Shang's perspective. My first story!
1. Chapter 1

His father had come to announce his forthcoming marriage. Or at least his forthcoming betrothal, which, all things considered, was a simple formality. There would be a little official procedure – a visit to the matchmaker, a couple of recitations, and then he would be married.

Married.

His father was unwaveringly matter-of-fact about the whole affair. The woman would be of good family – 'impressive military lineage' was one of his favourite phrases – the only daughter of the Honourable Fa Zu. As always, he was aware of his son's nerves, and calmed him without losing face – by listing Shang's achievements. He was, after all, the son of a general, number one in his class, an equal in every sense to the warrior's daughter.

In truth, he had had precious little experience of women of any sort, never mind marriage. Shang lay awake in his tent considering the affair soberly. He had no real feelings about it – except perhaps a nagging sense of unease which must come, at least in part, from the inexperience that was to be expected from his youth. _A man of his age ought to have a wife…_this was his father breaking into his thoughts again…_with a man of your standing, there would never be a problem in keeping her in silk…_

He dreamt of his mother as a young boy, hiding in her room before he was sent away to school, the slice of her silk on his skin and the bite of her perfume as she kissed him and he ran towards her, smiling. He had barely any recollection of her – she had died too early for these memories to be anything other than brief, worn out fragments of the nightmares he had had ever since her death. He knew them by heart. Now he was feverish, a little boy too ill to move from his cot as his patient, smiling mother dabbed him with the ice-cold water that made him start. Now he was paralysed, powerless as she sickened before him. The voice of his father behind him telling him his mother had died… his mother's face melting into the giggling concubine his father had installed while he was away at school… she was teasing him, laughing at his boyish clumsiness and call him names… tripping him up in front of his father to humiliate him…

Shang started awake, blushing and shivering at once. That had been a trumpet, and drums. Something serious had happened – it was a signal the army had been attacked. Perhaps the war was about to begin. He was almost relieved and with a wry smile, he sighed as he ran towards his father's, the General's, tent. War was simpler than marriage. At least if there was a mild skirmish, he could postpone meeting his wife. Perhaps by then he might have found the courage to face her…


	2. Chapter 2: Every Single Grain of Rice

And then… that was that. He was a captain now – no, not only that, he was _the _captain. With the rest of the troops gone, he would probably be the only example of a soldier these peasants and shop boys had ever seen. He relished the challenge of a bunch of conscripts. Good training could make any man a passable soldier...so the best training…

He allowed himself a moment of levity, envisioning his wild success as an instructor.

He jumped slightly at the sound of… what was that the sound of exactly? A fight? More like a brawl. Already?

He knew he had about 30 seconds to take charge. With the general troops gone, if discipline was lost for any significant length of time, it would be almost impossible to regain. Far better to make an example of one of them, to show them what would happen to the unruly.

The men, naturally, all blamed the youngest and most inexperienced conscript. He was slight, girlish, not fully grown for his age, a boy still. The boy, Shang quickly decided, was nervous around so many other, stronger men, and was simply trying to prove himself their equal with clumsy attempts at manly prowess. Obviously, that did not excuse his wilful insubordination and deliberate impudence in refusing to answer basic questions (his name was A Chou indeed!) He would be tough, but fair. The men would return everything to normal, and nothing more would be said about the young Ping's overenthusiastic attempts at an initiation rite. If the regular army had fought each other like that, the perpetrators would have been beaten with rods.

And of course, that wasn't all. Ping wasn't just any other conscript - if Ping really was his name. Shang suspected no parent would name their only son 'flower pot'… more likely the boy realised his joke had fallen flat, was too afraid to admit it and now… he was stuck with it. Serves him right, Shang chuckled. No, Ping's father was the Honourable Fa Zhou, his future father-in-law. If Fa Zhou had never spoken of him, he was probably the overlooked son of an almost forgotten concubine who the family had no doubt forced into replacing the older man. Shang had few fond memories of his father's concubines, but he could not envy a man like Ping's position. Ping would have to make his way in the world without his father's attention, even love. There had been moments, Shang remembered with a shudder, when it had seemed like that was the only thing that had kept him alive. Army training was brutal…separated from everything he had ever known, the boy was forced to become a man, and the man forced to become a soldier.

But there was the beauty of it. If life gave some men very little, and others too much, the army's training gave them all the same basic tools of survival: strength, discipline, and the sovereign rule of law. He would look out the 'Strength' and 'Discipline' weights to begin the first lesson. It was an old trick, but surprisingly powerful. And, with any luck, Fa Ping would have picked up at least this much knowledge from his father, enough to impress the sneering older men that brute force wasn't everything. He would, of course, have to watch any tendency to be biased towards his own future family… with such a spiteful jobsworth as Chi Fu taking note of everything for one of his gargantuan 'reports', any suggestion that he was using his new position to impress his future father-in-law would be perfect ammunition.

Much better to keep it quiet.

He wondered, suddenly, if Ping was anything like Fa- Zhou's daughter. He chuckled to himself again. A Chou!


	3. Chapter 3: Retrieving the Arrow

Retrieving the Arrow

Shang sat, too exhausted to sleep, on the hill overlooking the camp's aborted climbing pole, its arrow still stuck there accusingly. He hadn't realized how lonely the life of a commanding officer had to be. Imprisoned behind a mask of ruthless discipline, he couldn't make friends with the men - he had to remain a threatening presence should order break down again. Laughing, joking, even eating together seemed out of the question. Chi-Fu, his only potential equal, was still sulking about Shang's early promotion, and constantly muttering dark threats of avenging himself with his final report. He would compose aloud in his tent, its stiff cloth walls ringing with phrases about the worthless new recruits and the many, many failures in their training… _absolute disgrace … inevitable dishonour…boys led by an incompetent child…_

At this point in the long miserable day, Shang could bear the burden no longer. Slinging his cloak over his basic uniform he marched off to find somewhere… anywhere… to get out of range of such a detailed list of his own errors.

It wasn't his fault. He had given them every lesson from his own training, all of his energy, his complete attention. He had never questioned the power of discipline, governed by the supreme power of martial law, to transform any scowling boy into an elite soldier. He knew no recruit mastered everything at once. As common labourers drafted from the provinces, their skills in the martial arts would necessarily be reduced. He had expected it. What had shocked him was the possibility that some men would actually _never _be ready.

And that his troops had an unfortunately high number of these kinds of men.

And, with a heavy heart, he had to admit that the worst of all was Fa Ping, his soon-to-be brother-in-law. He had genuinely tried with Ping, if only for his future family's sake. He had wanted to be an older brother to the lad, to encourage him to make a career in the army as his father Fa Zhou had done, to find some constructive outlet for whatever it was that made Ping want to 'punch someone'. He had tried to explain to him that one may be a powerful man without constant blustering … _Tranquil as a forest, but on fire within..._ or that to succeed in military exercises he had to channel all of his strength properly, to become a coursing river of a man, literally unstoppable. Instead, Ping gave up at the slightest opportunity, teased the men mercilessly, and insisted on cheating the moment his back was turned.

From his spot on the hill, he could see Chi-Fu storming out of his tent, trying to find him to make yet another complaint. He chuckled, and then sighed. Young Ping wasn't the only one who wanted to punch someone.

In reality, he guessed that much of Ping's troubles stemmed from his extreme youth – his voice had barely broken, he was still to finish growing even. It was unrealistic to expect him to complete rigorous military training. To keep a man at his post when he was unfit or incapable was a false kindness, a cruel gentleness. It would inevitably lead to disaster. He had seen it happen once before, when a young son of a commander, obviously not suited to the martial arts, had been scythed in two during a basic sword drill. Shang still shivered at the memory. No, it would be a great dishonour to send Ping home so early, but an even greater one to have a similar death on his conscience. He had been right to order the boy home. He had had to remain impassively stern throughout; he was afraid that Ping would plead with him. He sighed. If men such as Ping had discovered their weaknesses during training, so had he. He hadn't realized how much of his power came from raw nervous energy, or that he would feel so deeply his failings as an instructor.

He would instruct his father, in his next dispatches, to increase the bride price for the Fa daughter, perhaps even hinting that he had been impressed by Ping's progress in passing. General Li need never know of his being sent home, at least until much later. Strictly speaking, he knew this was not how it was done – a dishonoured family ought not to expect to profit from matrimony, or to be able to conceal their dishonour. He yet again wondered how the great and Honourable Fa Zhou had neglected his son so badly. Nevertheless, Shang felt responsible for the oncoming grief to his parents-in-law. He ought to have noted the boy's age from the beginning, demanded a replacement sooner. He had simply been too overwhelmed with his new responsibilities. But, he thought ruefully, he ought not to have been. The law is always the law. He would not ask his father to withdraw his claim to Fa Mulan. It would be weak, cowardly, to withdraw from the dishonoured when he felt his own guilt.

And, to be truthful, he was beginning to understand the need for a wife on a military campaign. Not, of course, to live within camp. An army camp was no place for a woman one held in any esteem. But he understood the hunger to have something, one thing, which bore no relationship to war, to the incessant discipline of the military and the petty squabbles of encampment. If he were married, he realised, he would be writing to his wife on this hill. He had scorned the men who had spent their spare moments writing poems about violets and lilies to women they had barely lived with. Now, he felt he grasped the impulse. If there was war, there must also be peace.

He saw a frustrated Chi-Fu eventually retire to bed. He stole back to his tent to wait until dawn, when the awkward business of discharging Ping would begin in earnest. He did not relish Chi-Fu's triumph when he had to admit his failure.

He started to his feet suddenly. He must have fallen asleep … but that was definitely the sound of an arrow. He opened the doors of his tent, blinking into the rising sun… it couldn't be… it was…

Ping was gazing at him from the top of the flag-pole, a grin creasing his face from ear to ear. A faint hope began to dawn in Shang's breast… and a faint feeling of pride.


	4. Chapter 4: Needed at the Front

**Needed at the front**

Shang could barely believe it. He joked to his father in his dispatches that occasionally he found himself expecting to wake up, stiff necked and side sore from having fallen asleep awkwardly in his tent, and it had all been a particularly convincing dream that Fa Ping, the least confident, the least capable, the absolute bottom of the class, had suddenly begun to lap everyone in training, shoot every arrow, complete every sequence with perfect grace and precision. Ping had even defeated Shang in hand-to-hand sparring.

He joked, but initially it was true. He had always believed power and self-control could succeed anywhere, but he had never _known_ it, until now. With Fa Ping's sudden growth into a man, the rest of the troops had suddenly begun to succeed too. After dismissing Ping, he had almost toyed with the idea of dismissing himself. Now, he – and they - could honourably advance to wherever the army might order – straight into battle, if they wanted it.

The problem was convincing Chi-Fu. For months, Chi Fu had had great fun itemizing his every mistake. His report was a classic in how _not_ to train your troops. Suddenly, he would look a fool if the army high command could compare his scathing remarks to a perfectly well disciplined, elite fighting force. His answer was simply to dismiss out of hand any suggestion by Li Shang that they had completed their training, and should now be proceeding with the rest of their mission.

Shang sighed. Once, when he had started his basic training, his father had told him that he envied the simple life of a common soldier. As a young ensign, Shang had spent many long, indescribably dull nights polishing his armour, longing for a chance to prove himself. Since his promotion to captain, and his constant arguments with Chi Fu, he looked back on them with a creeping fondness.

He knew his troops would never be perfect. Chien Po could still barely swim, although he was so large it seemed hardly to matter. Yao was always going to be quick tempered, but loyal. Ling would still try and crack a (desperately unfunny) joke on the way to the scaffold. As for Ping … Shang didn't like to admit it, but Ping spoke to himself in moments of crisis, or when he thought no-one could hear. Shang guessed his real name must be Mushu, or something thereabouts. But then, knowing all this was absolutely necessary for command. He knew all his men's strengths, and their weaknesses. He had to … all of their lives would depend on this knowledge in battle.

_I'll hold him… and you punch_

It was Ping, eager to please as always. Shang smiled at the boy's stumbling attempts to cheer him up. At least the men were on his side. Well, he corrected himself, at least Ping was on his side. He smiled again as he remembered his own early days in basic training when he tended to idolize his favourite commanders. Shang's father had warned him about maintaining a suitable distance from his troops for this very reason. If, as he strongly suspected, Ping had been ignored by his father, it was to be expected that he would replace him with his commanding officer. It was understandable, if a little embarrassing. Ping would recover, in time. Besides, thought Shang kindly, why shouldn't he allow a young man like Ping to earn his trust? It would be of real benefit to him to eventually feel appreciated, when he truly deserved the accolade.

Fleetingly, Shang wondered if marriage would be anything like that. He would be marrying Ping's sister, after all. But how would he…

Too late, it was a disheveled Chi Fu running towards him, waving a paper in the air. Apparently, he had received an urgent dispatch from the General commanding the reserves to advance. Shang was sceptical. It was unlike his father to issue what was essentially a repeat command – it had always been their intention to rendezvous at the Pass at the end of basic training. It was even more unlike an army courier to give dispatches to the adjutant, and not the commanding officer. And, Shang chuckled, completely unlike any courier he had ever known to completely disappear without trace the moment his message was delivered. Much more likely that Chi Fu had invented the whole thing as a ruse to save face about his abandoned report.

For the first time, Shang felt somewhat at a loss after consulting the training manuals. There seemed to be no instructions that covered outright deception in support of the truth. No matter, smiled Shang, at least they would be obeying orders, after a fashion.


	5. Chapter 5: The Woman You're Fighting For

And so… they were marching north, into the mountains. The men were singing, again. Shang tried to remember his father's advice… singing was best because… no … at least if the men were singing they weren't fighting? Or was it that they weren't afraid? No, that couldn't be it… the men had good reason to feel, if not fear, at least nervous. They didn't seem _too_ frightened though. Much of their song seemed to involve how much they disliked marching. Perhaps these were feelings best sung, rather than voiced at their commanding officers…

Shang could barely admit it to himself, but he did have a nagging sense of unease. The original idea was that, as reserves, his troops would only act to trap the retreating Huns and relieve the regular soldiers after the initial battle. They were simply too few men to do much good at the front. If his father had ordered them to bolster the troops at the front before the main offensive, he must know himself to be outnumbered – and quite substantially, too, not to simply recruit more men from the surrounding villages. Or perhaps, more optimistically, the initial battle had gone much better than hoped, and he simply wished to relieve his men earlier, and he had no real need of reserves to guard against renegade Huns attacking in their withdrawal.

The men were singing about women now. This was a subject Shang had been studiously trying _not_ to think about. He must, above all things, _not _be disappointed in his new bride because he had imagined her to be someone else. Nothing would be gained by fantasizing.

They were teasing little Ping, now, about his success with women. Shang remembered what it was like when he was a regular soldier, too young and too inexperienced to have any knowledge of women. He remembered with some distaste being dragged by the older soldiers to a house of ill repute. That sort of thing was what they believed would make him a man. On the contrary, all that Shang could remember, when he was abandoned by them and escorted by a young woman whose face was made inhuman with thick chalk and ink, was how awkward and shy he had felt as she unwound her thick coils of hair and began to display her dainty feet. Much of the time, he realised, he had spent panicking, trying to avoid intimacy. It had offended his sense of decency, of morality, to take casually for hire that which had not been legally agreed upon by the superior authority of their parents.

_How about a girl whose got a brain, who always speaks her mind?_ The men laughed at Ping's idea of a perfect wife. It marked him out as unusual, certainly, thought Shang, but only because Ping was too young to understand the peasant's stock responses – about cooking, cleaning and silent worship - required of a man to maintain a level of privacy. Shang could understand what Ping meant.

He remembered the surprised look on the woman's face when he had asked, not only her name - Deng Fang, if he remembered rightly - but who her parents were, where she came from, what songs she liked to sing, what she wanted for the future, what she thought of him, of the army, of the chances of war. Perhaps she hoped she might make a concubine yet. But in truth a conversation with a woman was quite as exotic to Shang as any other form of affection which in the end he responded to stiffly, almost as a sense of obligation. Women were so silent, so alien, like the peasant women they passed on the road … or so present and cruel, like his father's concubines. It was customary to belittle a talkative wife, but in his obviously limited experience, romantic situations were awkward enough without some confidence that the recipient had a brain and could respond… appropriately.

Shang sighed. Love was so often belittled by scholars and poets because it clearly made men neglect their duty to honour the wishes of their ancestors. Love was dangerous. It didn't stop his secret curiosity about the emotion though. It was too much to hope, of course, that he could fall in love with his wife, or that she could fall in love with him. Indeed, any poetry he had ever encountered on the subject implied people only fell in love when their marriage was forbidden. Perhaps, after all, marriages functioned better without that sort of thing. But, on the other hand, Fa Ping was an honest, loyal little soul, affectionate and hard-working and… he would be lucky, he thought, extremely lucky, if his wife Fa Mulan took after him. Perhaps he had spoken so because - No, thought Shang grimly, that was erring too close to speculation again, and he had promised himself he would not speculate on that subject.


	6. Chapter 6: A Sword of Honour

The men's singing had distracted them from a distinctly acrid smell. Burning… Shang could definitely smell burning… but there was no smoke hanging heavily in the air…

The village had been raised to the ground. Shang felt a sudden, punching coldness in his stomach. But the army? Where was the army? And where was…?

_I don't understand. My father should have been here…_

The men realized he was thinking aloud. For once, he didn't care what they thought of him. Shang's imagination, independent of his logical mind, tried to explain. There must have been a change of plan. A change in military intelligence, perhaps, and his father had had to retreat. The village had had to be sacrificed for the greater good of the campaign…

No. He knew his father would have kept his word; he would have protected the people at all costs. At all costs…

This was why he knew, before the other troops did, what was waiting on the other side of the village… the sickening sight of a field of corpses, rotting where they had fallen.

_Search for survivors…_

There was still a chance, surely, a chance for a general… and even if they didn't find him, he could easily have been taken prisoner. A general would make a good hostage, as extra leverage to negotiate with the Emperor ... they could expect a good ransom, even, if it was money they were after.

No. He knew, even as the men brought him his father's helmet, that the Huns did not negotiate. The Huns were not interested in money. They took no prisoners. They took pleasure in it. The men were shielding him from his father's corpse – the Huns must have enjoyed themselves with the body of a general ... Shang corrected himself sharply. It was too much to think of – he could feel rage beginning to burn him, as he had seen it burn men before, so that they had no reason, no thoughts apart from grief. And there was no time for mourning. He could give his father only the barest of funeral rites. The soldiers would have to remain unburied, even. The best way – the only way – to commemorate his father's life – would be to defend the Pass, to stop the Huns from reaching the City, the Emperor, and the people. Even if they couldn't stop them completely, they had to try; they had to slow them down so that the City could prepare itself.

He stood up from his father's helmet and shield. They would have to act as a memorial to the fallen. They weren't his any longer, even if they were his by right. One of the men, Ping he thought, had left something the men had found of the villagers', a girl's doll, still charred by the flames. His father had died defending her. A soldier should expect to die in battle, he thought sadly, but never better than to die defending what was right.

He turned round. The men felt his loss… but now, of all times, they couldn't slow down. They had to fight. He had to lead them. He felt the responsibility as almost a physical weight – they were the only soldiers left that stood between the enemy and victory. The task was almost impossible. It would almost certainly mean all of their deaths, but they would be repaid with honour, as his father had been.

Wearily, he put young Ping at the rear, with the wagons and ammunition. Ping was responsible, yes, but at least, he thought, that way he would be protected from the heaviest combat. Family duty demanded this much from him, even if he was only engaged, not married, to Ping's sister. He had been a fool to contemplate marriage at the very beginning of a war. At least, with his death, Fa Mulan would not have to enter such a long mourning period as a widow before she could marry someone else, someone more reliable, like a farmer or a shop-keeper, he thought bitterly. He stiffened his resolve as he mounted his horse. Everything was better off as it was – Fa Mulan had never met him, would never need to grieve for him. No, he would have no sons to continue his family name, but then they would not suffer the indignities of being fatherless … and have no need to grieve for him either. Shang would spare anyone the pain he himself was beginning to feel.

He turned around to see Ping sadly leading his horse. Perhaps Ping would live long enough to describe him to Mulan, the sacrifices he had had to make. That was perhaps the best honour he could now hope from this life.


	7. Chapter 7: A Sword of Victory

His shoulder stung as the men clumsily dressed his wound. Shang had had to be quite insistent that Ping be sent to Chi Fu, the only one with any medical knowledge, before himself. Shang's cut was only a surface scratch – it had stunned him a little, but his armour had protected him from any real damage. He shivered at the thought of Ping… Ping, the hero, the man who had saved his life, had lost a lot of blood. Even Chi Fu had looked concerned when he saw Ping's blood soaked tunic. Even victory, sighed Shang, would be embittered if it meant that he had lost little Ping.

And their victory had been colossal, the sort of victory that would be celebrated in songs and legends for generations. Shang was still barely able to comprehend it. It seemed churlish, even, to share the triumph, to try in any way to claim victory for himself when every success had so clearly been Ping's.

And Ping had been so pale and frail when he had lifted him unconscious into the tent… just a boy still and yet so brilliant. If Shang had always hoped he would one day be a general, like his father, he now realised how little he deserved any such an accolade, how little he possessed the tactical abilities that had made Ping's father, Fa Zu, so famous, and would in turn make his son so renowned. Renowned, even if…

He tried to get everything straight in his mind for his report. This would be crucial. He must recommend Ping for promotion without dishonouring himself in the process… he gulped as he heard a groan from the hospital tent. No, the main thing would be to honour Ping.

He remembered, distinctly, that the initial explosion that had given the Huns their position couldn't have been Ping's fault. Ping had been a good few feet away – admittedly, the boy must have packed the cannons badly, and a spark must have caused the explosion. No need to mention that. In any case, thought Shang, the Huns must have been so close that, had Ping not alerted them, they would have stumbled on them anyway. If their arrows had startled everyone – wounded him even – they had actually alerted them to the Huns' presence. The precious few seconds to get out of range and light the cannons had been crucial.

Shang had guessed they would be militarily under-prepared and out-numbered, but he could barely have imagined how exposed they would be, with literally only a few cannons between them and the Hun death charge. He understood, in the event of such an obvious impending disaster, the approved approach would be to target the enemy leader. That way, the enemy would usually be thrown into some confusion…but realistically, they were the Huns. He knew his plan had been desperate. Ping's, on the other hand, had been desperately brilliant.

It was, of course, tremendously risky. He had assumed Ping was about to commit suicide to better guarantee his last, doomed orders, and hurriedly tried to beg him not to be a martyr, to be realistic, to stay calm in the face of death. Ping, of course, had entirely different ideas. The mark of a good soldier, he guessed, was that they could follow orders. A great one knew when to disobey.

Ping must have angled his sword to start the avalanche. Within seconds, the enemy was finished, and all with a single shot… not even hand-to-hand combat. All the men had to do was run for their lives. After that, things seemed to grow hazy – he could remember grasping for Ping's hand as he was overwhelmed by the white flood. He must have passed out then - his head still stung, he realised with surprise as he stood up too quickly and had to reach out to steady himself.

He struck out towards the medicine tent to await Chi Fu's orders – they were isolated, but not so isolated he couldn't send out a runner for medical supplies if that were necessary. He would even go himself if horsemanship was required. He knew what was due a hero…


	8. Chapter 8: A Sword of Dishonour

Finally, Chi Fu exited the tent with a curious look on his face. Shang sighed. Now, of all times, surely Chi Fu could not be allowing his jealousy to interfere? Surely even he couldn't be as spiteful as to feign disregard for the man who had saved his life? Saved all their lives? Actually saved China?

Chi Fu motioned him closer. _Captain… you must confirm my suspicions._

Shang was barely listening to him. Suspicions?

…_this is highly irregular…_

Shang pushed past him. What was wrong with Ping? What did he need? Confirm what?

Ping lay bandaged, considerably better, almost asleep. His entrance must have disturbed him, and he sat up too quickly… revealing… revealing…

Shang gasped as he backed out of the tent. At least, he could hear himself gasping… but he could do nothing. He could feel nothing. This must be what shock is, he thought confusedly. This was, finally, too much. He had been lied to. He had just announced that he gave Ping his complete trust, the ultimate compliment for a soldier, and he…she…it…they… had deceived him, utterly. All he could hear was his father's own voice thundering at him … _how can I ever trust you_ _again? _

He could hear Chi Fu enjoying himself, working himself into a greater and greater pitch.

_High treason… ultimate dishonour… _

_The penalty is death_

The law … he gasped again… is the law… regardless of the situation, one could always follow the law. Mechanically, he marched forward to retrieve his sword. The penalty for deception is death, always…

Behind him, a new voice, subtly different to Ping's, softer yet even more firm, pleading for her life.

_My name is Mulan. I did it to save my father… it was the only way._

Of course, of course she did. That was it… he had always silently disapproved of the Honourable Fa Zhou's treatment of his son, his only son, in refusing to train him for battle, but that would make perfect sense if Ping was a… How could a woman have access to any such knowledge? He had guessed that tiny Ping had been forced into service to protect his illustrious father's great name, and then clung to his commission in the army as some desperate attempt at validation from a dishonourably distant father. He had almost been right. Instead, Ping had given herself willingly, recklessly, against all reason, to save her father's good name. Yes, that hard headed assessment of the facts and the lightning decision to do something suicidal, that was Ping.

Not Ping any longer, he thought quietly. _The _Mulan, his… no, not his, never his, it would be too much of a dishonour to…how dare she…

No, he must still remain calm. The men must never know. He must focus on the salient facts.

Ping was a hero. Heroes could not suffer the penalty of death. Even, he decided grimly, if it meant breaking the law. He realised, angrily, he was wielding his sword above her head, the poor, shivering… he should be disgusted with her… he _was _angry… but there could be no execution. That would not be justice.

_A life for a life. My debt is repaid._

His voice shocked him; it was so thin and tired. He wasn't disgusted with Mulan, as much as he was disgusted with himself. He had abandoned the law when it suited him… but it was he who felt abandoned. There was no honourable solution _and there should be, _he thought, _there should be_.

He marched away, bitterly.


	9. Chapter 9: Parade

The men were not singing now. If they spoke amidst themselves, he could barely hear them. He was only faintly aware of Chi Fu muttered threats. He wanted to dash himself to the ground and beat his fists on it like a small, disappointed child. He wanted to weep. But he wasn't free, even though the war was won; he was still a commanding officer. Duty forced him to remain an example to the troops.

An example of what, exactly?

What would the ancestors say of a man who left anyone, his affianced wife, alone on a mountain, still injured and bleeding, to be eaten by wolves, beaten and left for dead by bandits or stray Huns or… worse. There were worse things a group of outlaw bandits could do to a woman. Shang shuddered involuntarily, so violently that his horse began to turn round. Where it not for his father's good name, he decided bitterly, he would have run back, under cover of darkness at least. He had never thought he would curse honour as if it were a lie. That, he thought suddenly, was how Mulan must have felt when her dying father was commanded to fight. He was angry with her for including him in her disgrace, this great unravelling of all that he held sacred. And yet… it was true he could no longer assume honour and the law was the same thing. Even if he was angry… had been angry… she had been right…

He yawned. With no present threat of danger, he was suddenly free to be exhausted. No… he must stay awake… what if the Hun… he yawned again. They weren't here. He fought desperately to keep his eyes open, but it was no use. They were growing steadily heavier and heavier, and the voices of the men more and more faint. When he fell asleep on his plodding horse, there was no escape. He was alone on the mountain, crawling towards a kneeling figure, naked beneath her cloak, weeping and shivering in the fading light. He caught her in his arms and kissed her hair, murmuring her name … _Mulan…Mulan_… _my love, my darling…hush, hush now, I'm here now, trust in me…_ he awoke with a start. There was no escape from the truth, he admitted almost angrily. He was falling in love with Mulan.

The poets would have been happy. In love with a woman he could no longer marry. Love, he understood now, was not a pleasant emotion. It was brutal, attacking him at his weakest point – a war with his own self, a war he could not win. He realised with some dismay that he had thought only of Mulan for all those long hours of the march back to the Emperor's palace. He could barely think of anything else as they entered the city walls. There was music and dancing, feasting, even banners with his name curling in the wind. They shouldn't bear his name, he thought. They should be for Mulan.

He tried to imagine what his father would think. Here he was, his first, his only victory parade – he intended to resign his military commission after the campaign was over, he had lost all taste for the military – and he was pining over some girl. Mulan had taken risks. She knew the consequences. He could marry some other woman in due course.

No, he thought firmly, his father would be wrong. He could never marry, now, regardless of the dishonour. The dishonour was his to bear alone.

He had never asked the ancestors for anything, but he begged them now to protect Mulan. May she be brought home safe. May she be happy. May she –yes!- forget him. Forget the man who had demeaned her so, threatened her with death when she should have had kindness. Kindness…Shang could still feel her presence in his arms from his dreams, the touch of her hair and the lilt in her voice… how could she marry such a cruel, ungrateful…

_Mulan!_

There she was, alive. He gasped, in spite of himself. He had not truly seen her before, as she truthfully was. Beautiful and determined and free… He should be grateful, he thought, for that small miracle, that he had not killed her.

He remembered himself, at once. It was imperative that he not be seen to recognise her. Chi Fu could still report them, report him – if he had berated himself for being cruel, Chi Fu had disowned him for cowardice. They could still all be sentenced to death. Mulan, of course, couldn't understand … she was telling him something about the Huns. They were alive? It was a very real possibility. Publically, he had to belittle her concerns, to convince the men, and Chi Fu, that he was in no way corrupted by sentiment, that he would not break the law. The crowds must not believe she had been involved. Her reputation, such as it was back home, must also be preserved.

He had made too good a job of it, he sighed ruefully. If she had been dishonoured by him on the mountain, now she must despise him as a coward and a childish fool, like Chi Fu. Better that she was angry and alive, he thought, always better that. In her anger, she hurt him as badly as if she had physically struck him. Of course he trusted her, of course he did, even if she must in due course believe otherwise… he loved her, though she must never know, never be tempted to ally herself with him and publicize her disgrace. No-one need ever know anything about this, still, if her parents kept it quiet as they ought to do. She could go home a free woman. He was the one who was trapped, who could never forget her, never take credit for her triumphs and continue in the army. He would have to run away, once the ceremony was over. His shame must not be allowed to blight her by marriage. He would be publically disgraced, but that, he surprised himself, didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Mulan.


End file.
